


A Well-Crafted Pair of Handcuffs

by Queen of the Castle (queen_of_the_castle_77)



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: BDSM, Breathplay, M/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-27
Updated: 2011-12-27
Packaged: 2017-10-28 06:19:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/304674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queen_of_the_castle_77/pseuds/Queen%20of%20the%20Castle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Control is illusory, and the best leashes are double-ended.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Well-Crafted Pair of Handcuffs

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Smut, BDSM, breathplay, distinct lack of safe words.

The Doctor knows that the only thing able to keep the Master from escaping halfway across the universe (where he would inevitably end up ruling over some primitive society with an iron fist, which the Doctor obviously can’t allow) is a well-crafted pair of handcuffs.

The trick is that the Master isn’t the one who’ll be wearing them.

There’s an art to the game of cat and mouse that he and the Master always fall back into whenever their paths cross. It’s almost like walking a tightrope, or perhaps more like a dance. One step back, three steps forward, and twirl until they’re both dizzy. It’s lucky that this particular body of the Doctor’s can follow a rhythm very well indeed, if he does say so himself. He has a pretty good sense for which moves will propel him in the right direction, and which will get him knocked out cold on the floor while the Master continues to dance across the stars without him.

The Doctor is well aware, then, that there isn’t much point in trying to physically restrain the Master. Much like the Doctor himself, the Master has a long enough history of people trying (and usually failing) to control him that he knows how to slip a rope. He’ll escape eventually. No locked doors or tight knots will stop him forever. And in trying so desperately to keep the Master still, the Doctor would only make him all the more determined to get away.

The secret is to never let to the Master know that he’s being tied down at all. The Doctor doesn’t believe for a second that he could successfully get away with such a plan if not for the Master’s massive ego (it’s hardly the first time that particular personality defect has come in handy, either). The Master will never suspect the Doctor is handling him, just as he’s always done to some extent, because he doesn’t believe the Doctor ever really _could_.

He doesn’t understand his own insanity quite as well as the Doctor does. He can’t see the look in his own eyes just now as the Doctor finds himself suddenly on his knees with his hands tied in front of him. The Master looms over him with a proprietary smirk, and it’s clear that there’s nowhere else the Master would rather be just then. The Doctor’s bindings are more visible and physical, but that doesn’t make the Master’s matching set any less real.

So while the Doctor could easily free himself in seconds with a twist and a jolt, he doesn’t even try. Why would he? The Master is right where the Doctor can best keep an eye on him, and he’s completely occupied with conquering one man instead of the whole universe.

As long as the Doctor never lets on that that’s exactly what _he_ wants as well, they’ll both be happy.

Or, at least, they’ll be as content as the two of them can be when they’re stuck in a bigger on the inside but still not even close to big enough for the two of them spaceship, struggling for dominance with potentially universe-altering results, and squabbling over everything from the Master’s unapologetic psychopathy to whether the Master’s lying about using the Doctor’s toothbrush to clean the gaps between the tiles in the bathroom _again_.

The Master grips the Doctor’s wrists hard enough to feel the bones practically grate beneath his hands. The Doctor struggles to keep up appearances, of course, but the way his breathing increases in frequency actually has little to do with fear.

“Do you even have any _idea_ where you’ve gone and parked us?” the Master asks smugly, interrupting a more pleasant train of thought. “Stupid question. Of course you don’t. With your complete lack of ability to tell up from down inside a TARDIS combined with the state of this particular old bucket of yours, you’re lucky to ever hit the right millennium. I’ll tell you exactly when and where we are, though. The twenty-fifth of December in the year 2104 on planet Earth. Just beyond those doors, there’s a day of celebration among all of your precious little humans. Shall I leave you restrained here while I run off and ruin it for them? I’d enjoy demolishing all of their expectations. It would be like a Christmas present to myself. I think I deserve it, don’t you? Haven’t I been so very _good_ this year?”

The Doctor doesn’t protest against the Master’s brewing plans, knowing that do so openly would only drive the Master into action. Despite what he may or may not say, the Master already knows well enough that the Doctor cares about the fate of that little planet out there; highlighting just how deep that caring goes will just make it impossible to ignore. Similarly, he doesn’t verbally offer himself up for the Master’s amusement in place of the Earth. The Master loves a challenge far more than an easy prize; why else would he be so obsessed with _him_ , of all people? What the Doctor does instead is struggle against his bindings, though not viciously enough to actually break them. The Doctor can see the exact moment when the Master – his eyes trailing languorously over the Doctor’s kneeling body – decides that it’s too delicious a visage not to take full advantage of, even with the alternate promise of glorious carnage lurking just on the other side of the TARDIS doors.

“Of course,” the Master says slyly, “there are other presents to which I might lay claim instead.”

The Doctor doesn’t smile at his success, but he dearly wants to. The Master can be so predictable sometimes.

He wonders sometimes whether the Master has the same kind of thoughts about him. Perhaps he doesn’t realise that he’s just as caught up in one of the Master’s less obvious games as the Master is in his. It’s hard to tell. He’s not sure that he would complain if that turned out to be the case. Not with the Master looking at him just like _that_.

He loves the way the Master’s eyes practically devour him, though he pretends disgust for the sake of not tipping his hand. Even when the Master looks away – diverting his attention elsewhere momentarily while he reaches for something out of the Doctor’s line of sight – the hunger in him doesn’t fade. His eyes snap back to the Doctor’s like a whiplash, and the Doctor shivers at the perceived impact of it.

He half-expects the Master to take the simple pleasure (not that he allows it to be known as such) of watching what’s to come away from him. He expects to be blindfolded so that every little thing the Master does to him will become somehow less expected... more shocking. It would hardly be the first time the Master has played that game with him; the loss of one sense causing every slight brush of skin to be intensified the point that the harsher touches, when they come, are nearly unbearable. But he quickly realises that this time the Master actually _wants_ him to watch.

He understands why soon enough, catching a glimpse of what the Master is now holding. Just seeing what’s coming and knowing that he can’t – or won’t, to be honest – stop it is probably far worse than having it suddenly launched on him unawares. There can be a greater torture hidden in expectation than unspecified apprehension.

As the Master brings the object he’s brandishing closer to the Doctor’s face, the Doctor admits that it takes him a moment to figure out the purpose of what he’s looking at, beyond it being something nasty that the Master clearly intends to use against him. Eventually the Doctor’s eyes do widen with understanding, and also with no small amount of trepidation. He’s never seen a gag quite like it. It looks practically lethal. He knows the TARDIS holds a lot of secrets of which he’ll probably never discover the entirety, but he can’t imagine how in the universe the Master has managed to find anything like _that_ on board his ship. He’s certainly not responsible for putting it there.

He’s rarely spared a moment to wonder about whatever Time Lords used this TARDIS before the Doctor got it in his head to run off with it. Now he wonders what might have been hidden beneath that stuffy façade of Time Lord dignity that the others all insisted upon. At least the Master is honest about his proclivities. So is the Doctor, for that matter... at least mostly.

The shiny black dildo protrudes several inches further from the wide leather strap than the Doctor is at all comfortable with; further than he thinks it normally _would_ , if anything about such a device could be considered ‘normal’. He can tell it will be very different from having the Master himself in his mouth (which is far closer to what he’d normally expect in his current position). That, at least, he’s long since grown used to, and learned to crave, even. And though in that case he would undoubtedly be severely punished if things somehow got too intense and he dared to jerk away suddenly, at least the Doctor would physically have that option. This will be strapped in place. It will be impossible to shy back from it. That’s the point.

The Doctor’s mouth is stretched open wide and he makes a plaintive sound of protest. It goes unheeded, half-muffled as it is by the intrusion that’s being somewhat viciously shoved into his mouth. The strap is wrapped around the Doctor’s head and buckled firmly. His hair sticks up at all angles (more so than usual, even) around the restriction as if in a mirror of the Doctor’s rebellion against it.

“All those times I wanted to shut you up,” the Master hisses, poking gleefully at the gag, making it prod uncomfortably at the back of the Doctor’s throat. The Doctor’s eyes widen in response. “I should have done this years ago,” the Master adds happily.

The Doctor, apparently much like the Master, expects the loss of the ability to speak to be his biggest problem, especially given how gobby this regeneration has turned out to be. It’s definitely disconcerting. In many ways, his voice defines him. Without it, he feels somehow _less_. However, right at that moment of trying and failing to adjust to the Master’s latest toy, his enforced lack of speech seems far from the worst part. What need does he have to talk when in his silence he already has the Master’s undivided attention locked onto him?

No, rather, the thing that the Doctor finds himself instinctively panicking about is the difficulty he has in breathing past the obstruction. He derives oxygen from only one breath in every three or four that he attempts to take, and each unsuccessful gasp fuels his alarm. He chokes and half-suffocates, and knows that the Master will watch in amused fascination rather than step in to help him. The Master snickers at the way the Doctor jerks mindlessly against his constraints for that long moment, all but keeling over and rolling around foolishly on the ground, before logic resurfaces. The Doctor forces himself to stop acting like the kind of idiot the Master often accuses him of being, for when he finally stops thinking like one of the humans he generally surrounds himself with and remembers himself, he quickly recalls that he has his respiratory bypass to pick up the slack not accounted for by what erratic breathing he’s actually managing.

He’s not about to regenerate today. Not from mere lack of air, at least.

Control, he thinks. This is all about control, just as it always is. If he loses it, then the Master wins.

He’s never allowed that to happen yet, at least not in the long term. He has no intention of breaking his winning streak now. If the Doctor doesn’t come out on top – if admittedly not quite literally, for the Master is rarely in a mood to allow that – then the universe is bound to fall apart at the Master’s feet. Of course the Doctor has to stop that from happening, especially when he has a way for the only casualties of the struggle between them to instead be the Doctor’s suit jacket and shirt; they’re both shred so that the Master needn’t bother untying the Doctor’s hands to shed him of his clothes. The Doctor’s trousers fall in a heap to the ground, gathered around his knees, soon after. The Master then steps back to survey his prize.

A quick yank under the armpit brings the Doctor finally staggering back to his feet, just barely avoiding tripping over his trousers as he kicks them off. The pain of that sharp movement is instantly countered by the slow way that the Master reaches out seemingly unconsciously to wipe away the saliva leaking from the corners of the Doctor’s mouth; if the Doctor didn’t know him so well, he’d almost say that the touch is borderline tender. The Master’s now-slick fingers then trace down past the Doctor’s collarbone, with the frequent application of sharp fingernails along the way making the Doctor buck forward in desire for more before he can stop himself. It’s instinctual, or perhaps a learned response that the Master has managed to encourage through their previous encounters together. Either way, the apparent lapse in that ever-important control makes the Master grin.

The Master is far from satisfied by such a small thing, of course, but he’s clearly well on his way down that path. That thought stirs the Doctor nearly as much as the direct touch trailing over his sensitive skin.

When the Master reaches the Doctor’s groin, he barely even has to touch the Doctor directly at all before he’s hard and thrusting into the Master’s hand for a long and blissful moment. A sharp smack to his hip keeps him still after that. If the Master has at any stage been fooled into believing that the Doctor isn’t there entirely of his own will, the Doctor suspects that his reaction has probably snapped the illusion. The Master doesn’t seem bothered, though. Apart from that trademark smugness of his, and a barely discernable increase in the rate of his breathing as he smooths his hand over the Doctor's skin, he shows no reaction to the Doctor’s eagerness.

That is, of course, until the Doctor finds himself abruptly restrained in yet another way. A leather strap that the Doctor had been too distracted to see the Master retrieve is snapped around his cock and balls and fastened firmly into place. The obvious comparison to a collar and the attached symbolism of ownership doesn’t pass the Doctor by unnoticed.

It’s not as if he can really deny it. The Master has more than just a physical grip on this part of him, and many more parts besides.

As if to emphasise that proprietorship, the Master caps it off by wrapping a short red ribbon just below the head of his cock and tying an almost comical ribbon. It’s clearly a taunt that he’s the Master’s own personal gift to himself, to unwrap or not as he sees fit. As if the Doctor even needs such an obvious demonstration. Even though he can technically break free of the more tangible bonds at any moment if he chooses, it won’t do a thing to change the simple fact of possession underlying their strange relationship.

Even if they were at opposite ends of time and space, the Doctor would still belong to the Master, and both of them know it. What only the Doctor seems to realise, on the other hand, is that the reverse is true as well. Underneath his bluster and relatively empty death threats, the Master never wants to be entirely free of the Doctor either. And so he never will be. Not if the Doctor has anything to say about it, at least, and he’s always been incredibly stubborn.

He shows that in this moment by not letting the Master have his way easily. The Master attempts to manhandle him against a coral strut, but the Doctor refuses to have any of it. He has no intention for this to be a brief and fumbling stop-off before the Master heads off to find something more suited to his tastes. There are other ways that this can go that will be much more satisfactory all around.

He attempts to grin at the Master, but the gag makes it difficult. He imagines the Master can still see a shadow of that gibe in his eyes, though, for he swiftly takes up the challenge.

The Master’s smirk is in no way impeded, and so is completely unmistakeable.

The first the Doctor notices of the thin wire attached to the cock ring is when the Master jerks at it, using it like a slightly painful leash to force the Doctor to stumble closely behind him over to the central console. The Master plugs the other end of the wire into some kind of jack in the console that the Doctor has never noticed before (and honestly, it’s a bit disconcerting that he has no idea _how_ exactly the Master has found time to plan this all out without him noticing). The Doctor is quickly distracted from the spark of trepidation that the Master’s seemingly detailed plan is inspiring in him when the Master turns around and grabs the Doctor by the hair. He pushes the Doctor’s face pointedly right down just inches away from the TARDIS controls.

“Now would be a good time to find something relatively harmless to grab onto tightly,” the Master advises. He separates the Doctor’s previously tied hands from each other, negligently discarding the length of rope, only to fish two pairs of handcuffs out of his jacket pocket and use them to fasten each wrist to different parts of the console. The Doctor ends up stretched uncomfortably across the expanse of dangerous controls, straining as far away from them as his position allows.

“See that red button?” the Master asks.

With his nose being fairly literally rubbed in it, it’s hard to miss the massive button that the Master has clearly installed on the TARDIS sometime since the Doctor last looked ( _seriously_ , he has to wonder what _else_ the Master has been managing to get up to when his back is turned).

“You really don’t want to touch that button,” warns the Master. “So I suggest that you really, properly _listen_ to me for once and _don’t move_.”

The Doctor hears the zip of the Master’s trousers descending and tries to crane his head around to watch his cock bounce free, but the Master’s free hand slaps at his cheek, making him face forward. It’s almost as bad as if he’d been blindfolded after all. Sure, he can see what’s right in front of him. He can see the button he’s not supposed to press, for one thing. But that’s hardly the main thing he wants to be focused on right now.

He’d much rather be facing the Master, able to touch him, seeing his own nakedness highlighted by the fact that the Master is still entirely dressed except for that one vital part of him...

His feet are unexpectedly kicked apart until his legs feel like they’re spread almost as wide as his arms. Off balance, the Doctor staggers for a moment, coming perilously close to knocking that button the Master’s just been warning him about. He’s barely given half a second to recover before he feels the Master’s hand trailing all the way up his inner thigh.

The Master pauses for a moment on his way to touching where the Doctor wants his fingers most, but it’s not because he’s hesitant, or seeking permission, or anything equally as ridiculous in the context of what the Doctor would only privately refer to as their ‘relationship’. He’s doing it purely as another form of torture. The waiting, even if it’s short-lived, makes the Doctor twitch uncomfortably. His body feels too tightly strung – far too near to the snapping point – and it has very little to do with how stretched out he is physically.

When the Master finally touches him, it’s clear he’s done teasing, at least for now. He sinks his fingers inside in one fell swoop and the Doctor’s eyes fall shut.

The Doctor admittedly hasn’t let a lot of people touch him this way. Even without that personal experience, though, if he could actually speak just then, he’d willingly disclose to the Master just how certain he is that no other man he’s ever met has quite such talented fingers. It’s not perfect, of course. The Master doesn’t use enough lube – no need to make it unnecessarily easy on the Doctor, after all – and the fingers are just a little harsher than the Doctor would necessarily like (which is to say that they pry painfully inside him, which he likes, and skim the line of being outright brutal, which he enjoys somewhat less).

The fact the Master is being so very pleasing despite clearly trying to act as though he doesn’t care, though, makes it so much better. It’s as if the Master can’t help but be in step with him, and know exactly what the Doctor wants and likes. He can’t help but give that to him, just as the Doctor wishes to give the Master whatever _he_ wants short of death and mayhem.

A little sooner than the Doctor’s still-tense body is quite ready for, fingers are replaced by the blunt press of the Master’s cockhead (which is thankfully a little more lubricated, probably more for his own comfort than the Doctor’s). The metal of the cuffs digs uncomfortably into his wrists as he automatically jerks at the contact, but he’s not trying to get away from it. He welcomes the burn. Bruising fingertips on the Doctor’s hip prevents him from rushing it along the way he would like. It’s just as well. It’s better that way.

He wonders whether his enjoyment is the reason the Master draws it out so much from then on, or whether it’s done in spite of him.

Teeth scrape at his shoulder and neck in the perversion of a kiss, causing a tremor that travels through his entire body like a chain reaction. The trails of sweat that aren’t lapped up eagerly by the Master’s tongue run down the Doctor’s skin and drip onto the console, a salty counterpoint to how sweetly the Master works at him. The Doctor bites down on the dildo strapped into his mouth as if that will do anything to relieve the desperation caused by the other intrusion into his body. It does little other than increase the ache in his jaw, though not enough to properly distract him. The Master won’t let his attention be diverted that easily.

An unexpected stroke of the Master’s hand makes the ribbon looped around his erection fall away, presumably drifting unheeded to the floor. Suddenly free of that impediment, and with the Master’s far more welcome fist capturing him instead, the Doctor’s cock twitches. He almost can’t believe, given some of their past encounters, that the Master is touching him this way. Then again, he supposes there could certainly be a selfish motivation at play; the better he makes it for the Doctor, the better it will undoubtedly be for him in turn.

As if to prove that point, the Doctor grinds back into him. A groan reverberates in his throat and isn’t quite completely trapped by the gag. It’s obviously audible enough to make the Master chuckle.

“Hush,” the Master orders. “This is _my_ time.”

As the Master brushes persistently over his sweet spot, the Doctor really has to disagree. He’s enjoying it just as much, if not more.

The Doctor can’t help what happens then, in the midst of that mindless passion. As he thrusts back, his sweat-coated right hand slips, and the Master’s next shove propels him straight into the controls.

The whole TARDIS rocks dangerously around them. However, once the tiny part of the Doctor’s brain that can’t help but care about that sort of thing even in a moment like this realises that it’s only a temporary instability that will correct itself in a few seconds, any potential injury to the ship falls away completely from the Doctor’s notice.

Far more pressing is the matter of the surge; something far more than simple vibration, as if the TARDIS has been holding some strange power deep in her secret reserves. It jolts through the wire attached to the leather ring and sizzles stunningly around his cock and balls, before escalating and continuing throughout the rest of his body. It momentarily touches the Master through their points of contact as well, making the Master jerk clear of him. The Doctor can’t spare the attention to notice his sudden emptiness.

The Doctor cries out in mingled agony and intense gratification, barely able to discern the dividing line between the two. Never mind pulling away as the Master had; the Doctor would tumble clear off the console and onto the grated floor if not for the way he’s still cuffed firmly to the controls.

It turns out that the Master is certainly right about that button. Pressing it is like setting off a supernova, and the Doctor isn’t sure that even a Time Lord body can contain such a thing for long. He might regenerate today after all.

He tries desperately to gasp in a long breath, but the gag prevents him from even that tiny amount of relief. He can’t think well enough to free himself, and so is completely at the mercy of his bindings for the first time since this session has begun. The Doctor has no idea whether to be scared or glad.

He shakes wildly as – half out of his mind from the shock of it, and with that power still coursing through him – his climax feels as though it’s yanked through the entirety of his body instead of just out of the centre of him. Either the cock ring isn’t quite tight enough, or it’s just so violent that the cock ring isn’t quite enough to prevent it regardless. He sobs at the force of it, and hears the Master’s answering laughter as if from a distance.

The Master takes no pity on him until he’s far beyond being wrung out. Even then it appears that the only reason he pulls the wire that’s delivering the charge to the cock ring free of the console is so that he can sink back inside the Doctor without the jolt hurting him as well. The Doctor feels tears of exhaustion run down his cheeks as the Master finishes himself off, gasping and cursing as he comes.

The Doctor is left cuffed and vulnerable for several minutes, with the Master showing no signs of being interested in releasing him, before the Doctor revives enough of his cognitive ability for it to finally occur to him to shrug himself free of the handcuffs. He collapses weakly off to the side, ignoring the bite of the grating against his bare skin in favour of reaching behind his head and unbuckling the strap. He throws the gag clear across the room and inhales so sharply that it hurts. Everything hurts.

Though, at the same time, he can’t remember the last time he felt so good, either.

The Master doesn’t ask him if he’s all right, and the Doctor doesn’t expect it from him. He certainly doesn’t place his arms comfortingly around the Doctor and hold him through the last of the shudders wracking his body. Yet a hand cards briefly through the Doctor’s sweat-dampened hair, and the Doctor looks up and meets the Master’s eyes. For a long moment, despite the fact that nothing is stopping either of them from talking anymore and there are so many things to say, they are both unusually silent. The Doctor’s not entirely sure that it’s not just a delusion, but he thinks – or at least, he hopes – that in that moment some level of untainted caring passes between them.

Then the Master snaps his hand back to his side and paces determinedly around the console – away from the Doctor – as if he’s annoyed at his weakness and wants to physically distance himself from it. His momentary rawness first morphs into a blank, if intense, look, and then is swiftly covered by the mask of his familiar smirk. Everything returns to normal (or as normal as it can be, considering the Doctor is still slowly coming down). The Doctor allows his gaze be diverted elsewhere as his chin falls to his chest.

“Merry Christmas to me,” the Master says, clearly trying not to sound somewhat breathless. “And a very happy New Year, as well, since I believe this is just the start of what’s to come.”

Much more of _that_ just might kill him, the Doctor muses, but he wants to keep the Master by his side so very much, and he’d be lying to himself if he tried to pretend the shiver running through him is purely an aftereffect, rather than a sign of anticipation.

He’s never tried to pretend that in ensnaring the Master, he wasn’t trapping himself as well. That kind of denial has always been more the Master’s purview. He’s willingly ensnared, and content to remain that way.

So as far as the idea of more (and more and _more_ ) goes, he’s hardly about to complain.

If it should come down to it, he can’t think of a more enjoyable way to get himself regenerated.


End file.
